


halika na

by archekoeln



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Non-Consensual Touching, inappropriate thoughts, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28458762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archekoeln/pseuds/archekoeln
Summary: It happens and it happens and it happens and Nathalie’s head tries to process the difference of this moment from the last; from wide-eyed fear to this, whatever this is. To concern ebbing through his chest, down the veins drawn on his wrists like chains.
Relationships: One-sided Gabriel Agreste/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	halika na

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer for a short description of non-consensual touching 
> 
> this started as a vent fic that spiraled. sorry nathalie

Nathalie laughs about it when they ask.

The sound that comes out of her mouth, foreign against her ears, is a weird shrill— her voice grating and raw. Nathalie laughs when they prod her for details, blinks as they hound her about the moment it happened.

Someone asks, _“Why aren’t you mad?”_

She answers, _“Should I be?”_

And then she laughs. She knows she shouldn’t laugh but she _does._

There's no other reason for laughing other than _she has to laugh._

* * *

She never even realizes it the first time it happens.

When fingers brush accidentally against the fabric of her pants, or when he clings to her a little _too_ close to be anything remotely platonic or even appropriate for coworkers, or when he asks her to stand beside her because his computer isn’t working and, _“If you could fix it? I need a document saved in it for tomorrow’s meeting,”,_ and there’s no way out and she’s effectively trapped and it would feel idiotic of her to jump the desk because he’s not doing anything really, right? Nothing at all, right?

But the point is that she doesn’t realize the first time and it only occurs to her when a hand, again, brushes accidentally, _again,_ against the fabric of her jeans, _AGAIN,_ when she turns away from him to open the door for a second too long.

And when, and when her brain makes the startling connection between, _“This isn’t right,”,_ and, _“What the fuck was that?”,_ is when she realizes that it’s, that’s it’s a thing.

The reaction comes a little too late. Her heart starts to beat wildly beneath her chest and she feels like she wants to throw up. She clings to the wall and stands there, perfectly still, waiting for her breathing and her pulse and her brain to calm down in case someone sees her in that state of _almost_ but not really a panic attack.

She doesn’t tell anyone about it.

At first, at least.

The secret is kept in the recesses of her gut, churning with the odd disbelief that she’s in that sort of position. In _this_ sort of position. That she’s heard of this and that, and this is how she spends her first experience in an industry filled with people touching each other for various reasons related to their work—

 _but that wasn’t even working she’s not even a model or an artist or anything she’s just the assistant of this lowly man who thinks, who_ thinks _he can do this?_

And yet she doesn’t tell anyone because she’s strikingly new and who would ever believe her?

* * *

It happens and it happens and it happens and it happens and then she catches _him_ doing it to someone else and then Nathalie is suddenly talking to this second person, this second victim(?), Number Two(?), and then—

And then—

Everyone knows.

It’s a well-kept secret. They don't want to say anything. It’s happened. We’re glad you said it. Why didn’t you say anything sooner? How could you keep this to yourself.

_“Are you okay?”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”_

* * *

She laughs about it when they ask (again).

She knows she shouldn’t, but the laughter that bubbles from her gut is hard to ignore, hard to stop, hard to push back inside where it belongs. 

It becomes _that._ An inside joke between coworkers. She laughs and then, after a while, they laugh too. They laugh but Nathalie notices that some of them have stopped wearing skirts, that some of them are always sitting down. That some have their eyes peeled open when _he_ comes in the room and they are all hawk-eyed and judgmental and it is obvious enough that everyone is watching, _waiting_ for _his_ next move that nothing ever happens.

It’s a breath of fresh air. Finally, finally—

In the back of her mind, far from public scrutiny, Nathalie considers quitting. 

* * *

Long after the issue is settled (it never is, honestly, but she can’t stay there anymore), she quits her job. Everyone wishes her good luck as she carries the last of her things out the door.

 _“Things are going to change,”_ Number Two tells her with a hug. Nathalie accepts it with little resistance and lets the other woman cling for all of three seconds before prying away and smiling in return.

* * *

Later, when everything is settled (again, it never is, but at least she is _gone_ ), she finds new work in the hands of the Agrestes. 

* * *

For the next few years, nothing happens.

Emilie is her friend in this world and she is grateful that the opportunity to work with an actress and a rising fashion designer is given to her on a platter (not silver, _because that would be too much Emilie, I’m just glad you gave me a job like this_ ). 

Gabriel is something else but he is also her boss and of everything, that is how he stays in her eyes.

Little Adrien lights up their days.

The years pass and her fears of being fired for not being able to make the exact style of coffee that Gabriel enjoys slowly lessens. She works and works and works and everything falls into place. 

She gets the hang of working under Gabriel Agreste directly. She stumbles through navigating through his family life. She becomes a permanent guest in the Agreste household. She watches Adrien Agreste grow. She learns far more about Emilie Agreste than she thought she knew.

She might even say that she is finally enjoying herself.

_Forget that first run. This is yours now._

Nathalie is content.

* * *

And then Emilie Agreste dies.

No. No. Die is a harsh word to use.

Gabriel says that she’s _asleep._

* * *

Everything happens after like a video fast-forwarded by an impatient child. Hawkmoth and the miraculous and magical terrorism and children fighting and Heroes Day manages to ruin his plans and now—

Nathalie takes over the mantle of Mayura because who else would? Emilie suffocated them with her presence and Hawkmoth is looming over Paris like a persistent shadow and Gabriel overcompensates his desire to protect his son and Adrien runs away at every chance he gets because he is a boy who wants to be _free_ from his father and Nathalie is—

Mayura rises, lightning at her fingertips, hearing the crackle of the miraculous against the beating of her heart. If this is what Emilie felt during her days alive, with the Peacock pinned against her chest, then she somewhat _understands._

She remembers how she felt power and desire, despair and fear, and then?

And then she felt nothing at all.

* * *

It happens again.

It's different, but it happens again.

Nathalie laughs at the realization, as she sits still on one of the plush chairs, as her feet are laid on the ottoman in the sitting room, body heavy with the fatigue incurred from using the Peacock. Gabriel's touch still lingers on the skin of her knuckles, fingers calloused and yet surprisingly _soft._

It must mean something. 

It _shouldn't._

Emilie once told her that her husband can be inappropriate that way, when she first started, when she watches his fingers graze the bare skin of Emilie’s forearm when he hates even any type of interaction with anyone else.

(Nathalie is in the weird position of middle ground here. Often, Gabriel allows it when she flits near him, when he would push away anyone else. She doesn’t understand why. She just lets it be.)

(Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happened.)

 _“He likes that. Holding onto something, someone. Touching, like that. Just like that,”_ Emilie would often muse to her friend slash her husband’s assistant slash her son’s caretaker. Her fingers ghost over Nathalie’s arm as if to demonstrate. Even Emilie hasn’t touched her like that other than the friendly hug given to her during her first week. “ _It never means anything to him.”_

Nathalie has built herself to resemble her namesake. Heartless, right? After all that, that, after the, that. But that, tracing a finger against her covered arms? Just that? Really, Nathalie?

 _“If you feel uncomfortable about that, you ought to tell him that because he wouldn’t know otherwise. But he hasn’t done that to you, has he?”_ She asks sweetly, and then laughs at Nathalie’s fear-stricken expression. 

If she realizes, she doesn’t say. 

_“Oh Nathalie. Oh Nathalie. You don’t have to worry. He only does that to me. He only does that to the people he cares for. You should hear what Amelie says about him when she tries to touch him. Oh, I’ll tell you. It’s so funny!”_

Emilie tells her everything. Nathalie doesn’t find any of it funny.

She laughs anyway.

* * *

Realizations tend to punch her square in the jaw.

He doesn’t touch Adrien at all.

No. 

_No._

_Not like that._

Nathalie feels the disgust rolling out of her mouth at the very thought. _Like that._ She will throw herself off the Eiffel Tower than ever think of it, than to ever imagine—

Gabriel _loves_ Adrien.

But Gabriel doesn’t _love_ Adrien. Doesn’t hug him like a father should. Doesn’t hold his shoulders, offer support, _love_ like a parent should to their growing child, to someone who has also lost.

And Nathalie, _Nathalie on the other hand_ — is the assistant and she shouldn’t care that deeply for a child that isn’t hers, for a man that cannot be hers, for a friend that is all but lost save for a wish to the gods.

But she does, doesn’t she. She has, for a while.

* * *

It happens and it happens and it happens and Nathalie’s head tries to process the difference of this moment from the last; from wide-eyed fear to _this,_ whatever _this_ is. To concern ebbing through his chest, down the veins drawn on his wrists like chains. 

And she thinks about what she _feels,_ what she _should feel,_ what _shouldn’t be_ creeping up her spine at the near touch and the glances when Nathalie coughs into her hands.

She shouldn’t really think about it too hard. 

* * *

And she doesn’t.

Until Gabriel inches closer and closer until they are in a bed, asleep, and she dreams about being trapped between hands crawling up her sides.

* * *

It starts with the Peacock and then that moment in the sitting room. It starts with her desire to _help,_ and then her regret at failure clawing up the slit of her dress, little by little. It starts and ends with disgust at the notion that Gabriel… that Hawkmoth’s hands are far too big and at the thought of his concern morphing into something else, something she has felt before.

Nathalie shivers. The cold shower that she takes after the thoughts have fully gone away help little. The chuckle that spills naked from her mouth feels familiar enough that she doesn’t attempt to swallow it back.

She hates herself for laughing about it, if at all.


End file.
